Well, when you say it like that
by BeaBae
Summary: Someone notices that USUK does not mean "America topping England", "but America topping England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland." Unfortunately, some of the United Kingdom feel cheated out of a good time. De-Anon'd from Kinkmeme.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey, this was my first fic on the kinkmeme and now I'm de-anoning here! 8D **

**This fill will contain some graphic content including cursing and sex, but the first several chapters are pretty safe if you're not comfortable with that. It also contains three OCs, Scotland, Northern Ireland and Wales. If you don't like OCs then please don't yell at me, it was the entire point of the fill. If you're willing to give them a chance, then please do! 8D **

**(if it motivates anyone to give them a chance, research actually went into their creation! )**

**This fill will be moved to the M rating after the first several chapters have been posted. It'll be updated daily until finished. I hope you all enjoy! 8DD**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or any of the world's countries, only ideas of what England's brothers are like.**

America and England were fucking.

Even their_ governments_ knew _that_.

The United Kingdom was made up of four brothers.

_Everyone_ who had any idea nations existed knew _that._

They were two very basic facts that, honestly, no one thought very hard about. England represented the United Kingdom at meetings to prevent any shouting matches between their ranks, Wales ran errands and Northern Ireland did the cleaning and Scotland controlled the amount of alcohol in the house at any time and did the cooking when no one bothered to order-in.

(_Ever since Scotland began spending more time with France and Italy, he'd been considered the most knowledgeable about food around the house. While his cooking was a bit bland at times, it was better than a certain other person's attempts._)

(_Someone once asked how practical it was to have nations doing their own chores. The general reply was that humans tended to not last long in a nation's house and frankly, keeping secrets became more difficult when they were around._)

It was practical. Basic. Accepted. Like a very old tradition, almost. England and his brothers were so _obvious_that, frankly, no one paid much attention to them anymore most of the time. There were notable exceptions, such as their close friends, or that time one of Scotland's children kicked a flaming terrorist in the crotch so hard he sprained his ankle. Mostly, though, the only thing that brought attention away from England and onto his brothers were the shouting matches between them, but even those were attracting less and less attention as more and more things happened in the world that didn't happen every day.

It had gotten to the point where sending a message to England sometimes started off with 'Dear U.K.,' or over the intercom at meetings, "U.K., please report to the board room, U.K., please report to the board room."

America had gotten this treatment as well ever since he first became 'The Untied States of America.' He understood it as well. The United States of America was a bit of a mouthful, which was why his citizens called themselves just 'Americans', much to the chagrin of South and Central America. 'U.S.A.', or even just 'U.S.' was much shorter than even America.

Even his states shortened their names. KS still couldn't get rid of the Westboro Baptist assholes, and HI still wanted to be acknowledged as existing before the annexation.

(_When he thought about it "representative of England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland" was an even larger mouthful, so U.K. probably was a better option. Y'know. If you didn't want to actually call England, well, England._)

Fifteen times a day he got messages that started out 'U.S.— meet Mr. Something in room Number at Time O'Clock for discussion on OhSnap.'

The one time this abbreviation of their names ever became a problem was one day when they had both been in the bathroom and lost track of time. Over the intercom came 'U.S., U.K., please come to the board room. U.S., U.K."

They'd arrived back at the meeting to find the entire table cracking up.

Apparently, North Italy had been enchanted by the sounds their abbreviated names made so close together and had been chanting "you-ess-you-kay," while waiting for them to arrive. Annoyed with his brother's antics, South Italy had started saying "you-ess-you-kay" as well.

But when South Italy said it, he stressed the letters to sound like "Youssuck"

France had found this incredibly amusing, elbowed Spain and said, "That's the best name yet. It's accurate. They probably _are_sucking right now."

It had escalated from there. By the time America and England had actually arrived, a flurry of sex jokes about their name had swept the table.

America had cracked up for the remainder of the meeting with the rest of the table with England sputtering and cursing up a storm by his side.

That night, they'd entered their hotel room after a short dinner.

England slammed America up against the door the moment it had shut behind him.

"Twats," he spat, "talking about us fucking in so much detail and not even having the good sense to let us step out of the room after a while."

America laughed and ground against the knee he found conveniently between his legs. "Aw, don't be bitter, Iggy. I got some new ideas from it."

England scoffed and wrapped his hands in Alfred's hair to drag him down into a kiss. "And a good thing, too. I'd have lost all hope for you if you sat through all that and didn't learn anything new."

000

The jokes persisted through the meetings, though not nearly as dominantly as they had the first day. It became an easy chuckle to mention it and didn't cause much of a disturbance in the grand scheme of things.

That is, until England ran afoul of a traffic accident one day, about a week before the meeting gathered. While the human couple in the car that T-boned him survived, England's body was shredded and needed several days to reform properly, and another few to stabilize so he didn't accidentally drop a leg if he walked too much.

Wales, the least agitated of England's brothers, had been chosen to replace England for the meeting. As America walked in, alone for once— normally he would meet up with England at an airport and taxi to the hotel together— he reflected he hadn't really met Wales.

When he walked into the meeting and sat down beside him, it was the first time since his colonial days he'd been in truly close quarters with the small nation.

Wales was quite possibly the cutest thing Alfred had ever seen after Babe the Big Blue Ox and Pollyanna.

He was the shortest of the brothers, just a few centimeters under England himself. What set him apart from the other brothers however, wasn't a matter of geography or politics. His hair was wavy and short, it curled at the nape of his neck, his eyebrows were almost tamed and freckles dotted his cheeks. By mere _chance_ he ended up as the modern-day definition of the rival of a baby rabbit in scale-of-_aww_.

A face like his could've taken over the world. And for some reason, England took him over and made him his personal slav—_secretary_for a millennium.

America could sort of see why.

Thirty minutes into the meeting, however, America discovered something else.

Wales was the Canada of the British Isles.

He'd commanded attention when giving his speech at the podium, been perfectly polite as people passed by him, listened attentively to others and taken notes with a fountain pen.

Thirty minutes into the meeting, however, most of the table had forgotten his presence and by then it had been so ingrained to make jokes when Germany was speaking—

Prussia cracked the first USUK joke of the meeting.

Wales looked up, his mouth agape, but if he cried out in shock, it wasn't loud enough for anyone to take notice.

Germany kept speaking, dutifully ignoring his brother as Prussia unleashed his second joke— one Japan had whispered quietly to Korea who proceeded to blurt it out to the world. "U.S., how's the U.K.e?"

From the look of utter disbelief on Wales' face, he knew exactly what a uke was. Despite himself, America chuckled.

That might have been what made the final joke go off so badly. It was the first joke they actually made. "Hehe… youssuck…"

Wales stood. His chair scraped against the floor, and dispite his supernatural adorability, for a moment, he looked downright terrifying.

"Excuse me," he said. "We do not suck. We most certainly do not suck you."

All eyes turned to America.

"Hey, man," he said, raising his hands in a gesture of peace, "I didn't make the joke."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of the characters mentioned aside from the personalities of Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland. **

After his outburst, Wales sat back down and continued taking notes like absolutely nothing had happened. Once again he faded mostly into the background. This time, however, no one forgot completely and of the jokes made to lighten the mood of the meeting, not a single one involved America and the United Kingdom.

When Wales strutted back out the doors of the hall and hailed a taxi, no one blocked his path or so much as walked beside him, to avoid accidental looming, which had more than once been perceived as a threat.

Next month, England was once again at his place in the meeting.

Business resumed as usual.

000

Business was proceeding as usual. America went to meetings, returned to one of his homes in the states and spent the next three weeks until another meeting sleeping, eating, attending rallies, trying to dig his politicians out of holes and resisting the urge to backhand some of them by reminding himself, countries weren't allowed to give politicians what-for anymore. Modern day called that 'abuse' instead of 'due punishment.'

Well… business was proceeding mostly as usual.

Alfred felt like he was seeing more of the U.K. brothers than he had in his history.

The second meeting after England's return to the living, Northern Ireland had arrived halfway through the meeting to deliver some papers England had forgotten. As it turned out, England hadn't really needed the papers and it had been a misunderstanding on Northern Ireland's part, but as he left, Northern Ireland slipped America a few pieces of wrapped candy.

While America disliked being treated like a child, he wasn't one to turn down free candy. He sucked on the pieces until the meeting ended.

000

America had forgotten about the incident with candy by the time it was gone. There hadn't seemed to be much reason to remember it, so he hadn't thought on it to hard.

When he found Wales walking around one of his museums in D.C. one day, he tilted his head and squinted as though he were looking a vegan eating a McDonald's bacon cheeseburger. After a moment of trying to wrap his mind around the strange sight of Wales looking at some of his fine art, he found himself being approached by the cheerful midget.

"Hi!"

His voice carried in the otherwise quiet space. Some patrons looked up from their muttering to shoot them a look.

"Hey, what're you doing here?" America said, his volume much more appropriate to the setting. Wales took the cue and lowered his voice as well.

"Sometimes my brothers get hangovers all at the same time. I tend to go abroad for a day or two," he explained calmly, and wiped his forehead. "I realized I hadn't really explored your country. I should've probably picked a better time, though, it's burning outside. So I came in here. Colder."

Oh, right. British Isles. Not used to intense wet humidity. _Right. _

"It's global warming," America said, "At least you're not down in Mississippi or— well, in Texas, we say it's not summer until the asphalt starts melting," he grinned and lifting his glasses slightly to show off his disreputable state.

Wales smiled. He looked something like a small, green-eyed, freckled corgi asking for food. It was quite cute, though somewhat strange to see his features— which greatly resembled England's but for his hair and freckles. America rather did prefer England's, but still, "I guess I'm just not used to so much heat. It's normally a bit cooler back home."

For once, America was cut off as he opened his mouth to reply as Wales stretched and cracked his back, "but I don't really want to go home until Ireland says it's all clear…"

Without really thinking about it, America said, "I can find you a hotel for a few days."

Wales' face lit up like a puppy just being given a full steak. "Really?" he chirped, "thanks!"

He then did something America had come to not expect from other nations— Wales wrapped his skinny arms around America's neck and pressed himself close in a hug.

A very close hug.

000

Really, by the third time Wales sidled up and practically sat on his lap on a tour bus or escorting him to the airport— and the fifth time Northern Ireland helped him gather up papers by bending over like he'd dropped soap or something— and the seventh time either one of them offered him a treat in the break room (despite how they loudly proclaimed they hated being dragged to world meetings by England, who loudly proclaimed _he didn't want them there_)— America was suspecting something was going on.

Unfortunately, the rest of the world thought he was going through a conspiracy theorist phase again.

"My brothers have an unusual sense of humor," England sipped his tea irritably one day in Mumbai after being turned down by India yet again. America snorted softly, wondering if England's sense of humor was unusual to his brother's as well. "They'll stop eventually if you ignore it. Do you need a distraction?"

(_America didn't really think it was a good idea after all this, but accepted the distraction anyway. It was pretty sweet. He didn't know marmalade could do that…_)

"If I care, can I get recognized?" Sealand asked with genuine hope in his eyes.

(_It hurt terribly to crush him, but well— it just had to be done._)

"It matters?" Germany was bemused, "as long as it does not interfere with protocol and work, there's absolutely nothing wrong with it. You may want to look into it more, however," he quickly went back to transcribing his own record of the meeting between their bosses.

(_Complete with facial expressions and the number of blinks between sentences. Okay, _maybe_ that was an exaggeration…_)

"They could love you," North Italy sighed dreamily, Poland giggled and Hungary grinned like a she-wolf-man-gone-oh-so-wrong. "I'll ask next time Scotland comes over! He always knows who's with each other. I think it's because he hangs out with Big Brother France, but Ireland tends to see a lot of countries too… Poland, wasn't there one time when you were with England in World War Two and Ireland was rebelling and he had this one gun that wouldn't fire—"

(_Cue the end of _that_ conversation._)

"It's probably payback for the you-ess-you-kay thing," Israel hardly looked up from her computer screen to answer him, but it was alright as she offered one of the better suggestions. "Perhaps you should apologize. Unless you like the snacks."

(_He _did_ like the snacks. She knew him too well._)

"Don't worry," France soothed him one evening in a small Nice café after retelling Israel's theory— which he had very quickly come to suspect as the true answer. "As long as Scotland stays clear, they are only teasing you."

France had known Scotland since they had been Gallia and Alba. Knowing this, America trusted his advice on the U.K. brothers' habits and methods of exacting petty vengeance.

It comforted him to know there really wasn't any serious payback for the whole US-fucking-the-UK jokes that really were not his idea in the first place. So for now, he could just enjoy the gifts, conversation and company they provided and know it wasn't going to evolve into anything too serious or too problematic or too— well— he knew the British Isles could be kind of violent and he didn't really want it to evolve into that either.

France's words calmed him considerably. He stopped by England's place for a stroll in his Globe, some cuddling, and went home a week later and relaxed onto his couch, flipped on an old Walt Disney VHS and drank cocoa in peace.

000

The bell of the diner chimed as he strolled in, as he did each Sunday morning he was in an area that offered a good-old-fashioned late Sunday brunch. He would have invited England along but the old man was busy in a meeting with his PM this morning and had left the previous afternoon. Instead of a nice Sunday morning with slow sex and a sleepy day, sizzling bacon, hot pancakes, syrup, butter, salted sunny-side-up eggs, a two-galleon jug of milk, coffee and a $30 tip for the lovely waitress were on his mind as he took his seat at the corner booth under the racecar poster and between the high school football jerseys with a bold 23 on one and 12 on the other.

The bell above the door rang twice more. Alfred didn't look up. He continued reading the menu for what seemed like the hundredth time, waiting for a waitress to arrive at his table patiently, fantasizing about the best meal of the week.

Not thirty seconds later, someone stood next to his table. Looking up and ready to place his order, the words died in America's throat as he saw who was standing beside him.

"Hey," Scotland said, crushing his cigarette between two fingers, "mind if I join you?"

000

**A/Ns are now going to be down here, because I think if you've read two chapters you don't really need the warnings of OCs and content anymore. **

**Somewhat long A/N is somewhat long and full of headcanon and minor historical notes, because Google is my friend.******

**Scotland's earliest known name is apparently Alba. I find that oddly close to Albion (England's first name) but hey, I kind of like it. I've always felt a little iffy about his name being Caledonia since that was a tribe that later took over. I don't think a personification for every single tribe would've fit in the Isles back then…**

**The UK bros are stuck at home most of the time while Art takes care of diplomacy. Hence, they have a lot of time to fuck around. They've also had a long time to get good at it. With various types of fucking. Including fucking with minds.**

**Wales, having been under England's rule for so long, most of what he does isn't for any political or cultural reason, but because he's **_**really really bored**_** with being basically an immortal human for the past couple of centuries. After the rebellions died down, he didn't exactly have much to do except give Iggy footrubs, make the evening tea, mine coal and generally become rather miserable. So he distracts himself from how much he dislikes lacking much international identity by entertaining himself… and sometimes others… And he is quite good at it. My other headcanon is the entire British Isles (yes, Ireland too) **_**except**_** are all male, but the request specified male , so… the gender ratio continues to be skewed…**


	3. Chapter 3

Scotland ordered tea and porridge.

"I've nae tried yer cookin' for a century or so," he said, examining the dish. "Should I be worried?"

"Mow weh," Amercia shook his head and swallowed the first mouthful of eggs with an audible gulp. Scotland looked like he was holding back making a face. "I cook really well! ...and my people's cooking don't really count as mine, so you shouldn't worry anyway."

Scotland cautiously tasted some and after a moment had a second spoonful in what was apparently approval. He didn't touch his tea. Apparently he didn't like it cold and sweet.

It was kind of funny how long it had taken England to realize you had to ask for the hot tea specifically— and now his brothers were making the same mistake.

"Anyway," he cut some pancakes with his fork and folded them into his mouth, chewed and swallowed, "What're you here for? And are you sure you don't want to try these pancakes? They make them _really_ good here."

"No," Scotland ate his porridge.

"Oh. Damn. Bummer. So why are you here?"

"Wales got pretty upset aboot th' you-ess-you-kay shit."

"Oh," America quickly ate the rest of the pancake.

"And after a day or so 'e got really interested innit."

America's pancake slid to a halt halfway down his throat and he leaned forward coughing. Scotland reached over and knocked him on the back until it became dislodged. America set his fork down and decided to just drink his coffee for a little while instead.

"So…"

"So next month after th' world meeting, when you come over tae Arty's, head north tae a little place by my border. Bring Arty with ye if you want, just know I'm kicking 'im out later."

Despite his coffee cup suddenly being half empty, his throat seemed awfully dry. "…what am I going there for, exactly?"

Scotland's impressive eyebrows rose. "to fuck th' U.K?" he said.

America blinked. He finished off his coffee quickly, without choking, "Let me get this straight," he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice to a whisper, "You're _inviting_ me. To fuck you. _All_ of you."

"Just the U.K.," Scotland said, not bothering to whisper and finishing off the last spoonfuls of his porridge. "You're never gonna get Ireland tae agree tae anything, honestly. Just Northern Ireland. Don' get tha' cocky."

America sort of wanted to make a comment about it being _just_ the UK. Most people didn't even get two people from the same family and if Scotland was being serious— which France's information lead him to believe Scotland's mere presence made this, in fact, _serious_— he was being offered four brothers with some of the most desirable accents in the world.

_Just_ the _entire_ UK. Damn.

"And you're serious?" he really had to check.

"Why would I bother tae come if nae?" Scotland said. "Wales and Northern Ireland's pranks don't interest me _tha'_ much. I mean, tha' one time with the firecrackers in the vents was decent, but calmed down too fast, y'know? Nae even a fire."

"Wait, Wales and Northern Ireland did that?"

"Yeah. Who d'ye think did it? Sealand? The wee brat can't even figure out he could host a fundraiser to _build_ 'imself more land and have greenhouses and strain the salt from the ocean to become self-sufficient. Y'know, I always figured I raised 'em smarter than this but _no_, they all turn out morons," Scotland huffed. "D'you sell alcohol in the morning? I know at least one of your states ye can't buy it afore twelve hundred— what's tha' look fer?"

America quickly wiped the look from his face. "Nothing. You have a smudge there is all," he said, gesturing vaguely towards Scotland's cheek. "Yeah, you got it, it's gone now."

Scotland 'hmm'ed. While America finished off his pancakes, Scotland pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his jeans and seemed about to go for a lighter before apparently thinking better of it (glancing at a nearby smoke detector) and put them back.

"…So why're you offering this again?" America said once he felt the silence had stretched too long.

At about this point, America realized Scotland had no such pleasant expression as a smile. His face went from neutral to broken out into such a wicked grin America wondered if he shouldn't have asked.

"Well, Northern Ireland and Wales are fine making small trouble. I like bigger things," Scotland said. "And this you-ess-you-kay shit seems interesting enough. I almost want to see their faces if you walk in one day and announce it's nae a joke anymore."

"You'd _announce_ it?" America shouted. He froze and glanced around the diner and saw all the patrons staring at their little booth. Lowering his voice to an almost whisper, he repeated, "_You'd _announce_ it?_"

"Why not?" Scotland said, for the moment obliging and keeping his voice soft. "It's nae like it'd stay secret long anyway. But then it'd be gossip, so breaking it on our own has a better effect. Weren't ye supposed to have a sense o' humor?"

"I stay away from those kinds of giggles," America said.

Scotland snorted.

"Puritan."

"Anglican."

"_I have my own church_," Scotland dropped his grin. "I've had this conversation plenty'a times, let me tell ye. I don't want me religion coming up while I'm trying tae get laid."

"You're putting an awful lot of effort into getting laid…" America said.

Scotland raised one of his eyebrows again and leveled a stare at America. "Lad," he said, "I cook dinner a few times a week, and argue with people. I golf. Sometimes Ireland spars with me when he's 'round. D'ye have any idea how much spare time I wish I didn't have?"

"No," America said at after a moment, "not really. People yell at me when I'm doing anything but drowning in paperwork."

Scotland grunted what America assumed was some sort of acknowledgement. "Well," he said after a moment. "Too bad. I have spare time and feel like dicking around a bit with what 'ave ye— we're not really allowed to rebel anymore what with how all Arty's allies would swoop in and crush us y'see— so this is the most fun I get. So, what d'ye say?"

"Um," America stared at his plate. When had he run out of things to occupy his mouth with, again? "I might have to think about it a bit. I mean, me and England are…."

"Puritan," Scotland repeated. "Live a little. Polygamy. Golf. Cannibalism. Fucking. It's all very fun, laddie, trust me."

America felt like he'd missed something in that sentence but his mind was too occupied with the _possibilities_ following the next world meeting that had just truly registered with him to take notice or reply.

Scotland seemed to grow tired of waiting after a minute or so of letting America stew. He took a napkin from the holder and a pen from his pocket. After scribbling near the edges to get the ink flowing, Scotland jotted down a number, folded the napkin and handed it to America.

"That's the address and a phone if ye need tae get us. Remember, after the second meeting, my border, if ye don't call, ask Arty. He'll get you there," he said, stood, turned, and walked out of the diner. America saw him pull out a cigarette and light up the moment he was out the door. Then, Scotland turned a corner, and was gone.

America tipped the waitress a fifty.

000

The remaining week to the World Meeting dragged its feet the whole way. America's flight (on one of those new planes— air bus, maybe?— _it was going to be so cool_) was delayed three hours so he'd drag himself into a taxi at seven AM in Britain. The minute dinner was served on the air bus, he lay the chair back and curled in it to sleep, making sure the stewards knew that he wanted to sleep until the last possible moment of the flight so the jetlag might not hit him as badly.

He slept in the taxi to his hotel because it was a bad traffic day, forced himself to keep awake while setting up in his hotel room, ate a quick dinner, and attacked the health and fitness center in the hotel until he was so exhausted he would sleep clean through England's night and wake up the next morning on the right schedule for the two days of the conference.

(_England's McDonald's were surprisingly good, America noted for the tenth time. It was all nice and fresh because England's home was small and nothing had to be shipped too far. America wasn't jealous of course— he was very proud of his own transportation services. After all, those boots he kept in his Okalahoma home closet hadn't ever been just for show. _)

The first day of the conference _dragged_. England seemed to share the sentiment, as he followed America back to his hotel room with nary a complaint directed at America's behavior in particular.

"Fucking Pakistan," England muttered, "he will _never_ let that go, will he?"

"Let's not talk about the Middle East," America said. "Headaches."

"Right, right," England said, then sighed. "So. Changing the subject. Do you have any plans tonight?"

"Not tonight," America said, "why?"

"Standard question," England said. They arrived at America's room.

"You seem kinda edgier today than usual. What's going on? It can't just be Pakistan complaining about—"

"—No Middle East. Headaches."

"_Right._ It can't be just the headaches, can it?"

England paced a moment and inspected America's minibar. After a moment he confiscated the small bottle of port within it, popped the lid off and downed a fair portion. "It's nothing, really. Ireland just won't stop pestering me."

"What's he want?" America kicked his shoes off and sat on the bed.

"Oh, just if I'm going to Scotland's for something or other. Family things."

America choked.

"What?" England said, already opening a second bottle, "Are you doing anything with the brutes?"

"No! Why would you think that?" America laughed, "You say some pretty ridiculous things sometimes, Iggy…"

"So what's happening? And yes, I should know about it."

"…why are you drinking three bottles of port and how did you manage that in two minutes?"

"I'm talking about my brothers," England said, opening a third bottle and racking up the hotel bill like no tomorrow in the process, "I've got to get a bit drunk first."

"A bit."

"Yes. A bit. Otherwise I… you know. Stop me at five bottles, by then should be sufficient."

America watched as the third bottle disappeared. "So if this is you about your brothers, how bad are the guys known for their tolerance?"

"Awful," England said and popped open the fourth. "You're fuckin' m' brothers, then?"

000

**NEXT CHAPTER THIS FIC WILL BE MOVED TO 'M' , WHOO~!**

**so if you wish to keep reading, haven't added it to your Alert and don't often check the 'M' achieve, you may want to add it to your Alert.**

**I think there are just two fun facts and then some more rambling:  
><strong>**  
>In Ameirca (for any anons who are not from America) , if you order 'tea' you will get iced tea unless you specify 'HOT tea' . This may seem silly, unless you have ever been to the south of America in summer. Where the asphalt melts. <strong>

**Tipping (leaving money after getting a meal) is also a big fucking deal. Fun fact: once I was at a boarding school and some Chinese girls were chewed out for not tipping their pizza delivery guys. Seeing as they never got in trouble for anything else, it was a wonderful moment for me.**

**Scotland has his own church. The church of Scotland. Also known as The Kirk. Yeeep. At least, that's what google tells me… and as I'm sure all APH fans have giggled at a few times, America was colonized by Puritans… who did not like sex outside of marriage. And went to church a lot. A LOT. I don't know if Scotland had anything against Puritans like England did, so that was utterly unresearched and is only in there based on a hopeful win for the Rule of Funny.**

**Headcannon: Scotland = does it for the lulz. Not just sex. Everything. He was the one stuck raising three little brothers who did almost nothing but cause trouble, grew up and caused even more trouble for him, and from there his history is full of so much terrible shit that one day he up and decided "fuck it. I'm going to be a dick and laugh at people all the time." And that is how he has been ever since. Anyone ever wonder why he drinks so much? That's why.**

**Scotland is surprisingly reclusive (and secretly a mad genius. That telephone you're talking on? He invented that) If Wales is the Canada of the British Isles, Scotland is the Ukraine. Oldest sibling that people acknowledge exists, but no one really talks about him much until they remember his… attributes. Also, terrible cold weather and badass warriors (you all know who the Cossacks were, right? Yeah. UKRAINE.)**

**And now I crawl away to my corner of useless factoids. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Forgot the disclaimer last time, whoops. I don't own anything but my opinions of what , N. Ireland Wales and Scotland would be like.**

America hesitated.

England knocked back the fourth bottle. Picked up another.

By the time England had knocked back the fifth bottle, America was holding his breath.

"That's five…" he muttered, "No— no, Iggy, don't get another one I really want you at least kind of awake!" he snatched England's wrist as the old nation went for the minibar again. England scowled.

"Fine," and stopped trying to reach the bar. "So?"

"Yes. Scotland came and talked to me. I admit it."

"An'?"

America looked at England and took a deep breath, "…and it is a very, very tempting offer."

One of England's monstrous eyebrows rose. "Tha's not an answer."

"What's an answer, then?"

"Are you fuckin' 'em or not?"

"…well that's the question, isn't it," America sighed. He plopped down and spread himself out on the bed. "You won't get mad at me if I kind of really want to, right? I mean, you're sexy when you're mad, but it's a lot sexier when you aren't mad at _me_."

"They're my brothers, why wouldn't I get mad?" England growled, moving to tower over America at the side of the bed.

"I don't know," America said. "Because you used to call yourself the motherfucking British Empire and shouldn't have an inferiority complex?" England frowned. "Okay, you're _still_the motherfucking British Empire, sort of. You kept the eyebrows."

"Your tongue, America."

"Well sorry, I just assumed you could keep your brothers from doing stuff if you really didn't want them to do it!" America said, pushing himself up to sit on the edge of the bed instead.

England blinked.

"…you could actually stop them, couldn't you? I mean, you kind of represent their lands?"

"…fuck. I don't know if I should be happy you have a brain or furious you caught that."

"So you're okay with it?"

"I never said that!" England crossed his arms and huffed as he sat down squarely on the bed. "Merely that if I had to, I have the capability to stop it."

America was phenomenally quiet for a moment.

"…so you _want_me to do it?"

"_I never said that either!_"

"But you just said you could and you would if you didn't want me to! How did you even find out? I thought they meant for me to tell you if I…uh…"

England's monstrous eyebrows did a sort of tango on his face before settling into an incredulous raised position. "If they told _you_to break the news, then they were out for blood, love. No, Wales told me several weeks ago."

"…so you knew about this the whole time?"

"Stop putting words in my mouth. It's ridiculous."

"But you knew about this?"

England sighed, "Yes. I did."

"…so I'm getting to fuck the entire UK in a row?"

"For chrissakes, lad, get your mind out of the gutter! Here I was trying to guilt trip you and all you can think about is—"

England was silenced by America leaning over, wrapping tightly around England in a hug, and kissing him.

"Shut up. I'm getting to fuck you _and_your brohters," America said. "And you're letting me off with a guilt trip. This is a great moment for me. Don't ruin my great moment."

England huffed and pushed America off before wiping his mouth.

"All right, I won't ruin your moment," he said, "but because of my generosity, I assume you will repay me?"

America thought for a moment and fidgeted, "…I'll let you top for a month, blow you for another week after that… and… uh… take you out for dinner somewhere that isn't McDonalds."

England grinned. "That's my lad. And you'd better do well tomorrow, I won't stand my brothers teasing me for having a boyfriend with no stamina."

America laughed and hugged England again. "You are such a weird old man," he said. "How'd you get sober that fast, anyway?"

England hummed and ran his fingers through America's golden hair. It was about time to play barber, it seemed. "That's a family secret."

"Oh come on!"

000

The next evening, they set out headed north.

They arrived at Scotland's border much more quickly than America was used to arriving at a border by car. England knew the exact roads to travel ever since he'd become the representative of his brother and they glided through the countryside without a single glance at a map, simply following his intuition to get to the correct building.

They arrived outside a small one-story country house with no other houses nearby. The hills around were just starting to become steep and trees were sparse around the road, but America could see the outline of what seemed to be a small forest against the skyline.

The cottage was lit from within, and a porch light above the front door lit the ground outside. It flickered occasionally. There were two other cars parked by the side of the road, but there was enough space nearby so America and England wouldn't have had to walk far even if there were a few more cars.

England rapped sharply on the door as America watched the surrounding darkness suspiciously for wolves, bears and vampires (after that one time in Virginia as a child, he wasn't taking a chance ever again).

Footsteps quickly approached on the other side of the door and it opened to Wales' beaming face.

"You came!" he chirped, and stepped aside to let them in, "I thought Scotland might've scared you off."

"Why would Scotland scare me?" America asked.

Wales shrugged, "Sometimes he just does that to people. I think he made it a battle tactic, once. To freak them out, I mean."

England grumbled something under his breath.

"So yeah, do you need to use the bathroom first or something?" Wales said, ignoring his younger brother.

America blinked. "Wait, we're doing it already?"

Wales chirped affirmative. "Why, did you skip dinner?"

"_No!_"

The room was very quiet. Wales and England stared at America. America coughed.

"Um… I mean… no, I ate. Uh… thanks for the offer, I'm fine."

"…don't compare our cooking with England's."

"_He was not doing that!_Don't be an idiot, Wales. He's just very full a-and— "

Something _CRASHED_and all three of the nations jumped several feet into the air. Upon landing, they crouched low and panickedly looking around for some sign of an attacker, war scenarios running through their heads—

Scotland stood by a doorway with a large, dented leather tome that looked strangely the width of a phone book resting on a dented wooden table which now had four large dent marks in the old floor. "Huh," he said, "I should use that more often."

Wales, America and England straightened up, relaxing upon realizing where the sound came from.

"What was that for?" Wales scowled, "You almost gave me a heart attack."

"We have names for a reason, you dolt," England huffed.

"Am I the only one who notices he's in a sk— kilt?" Ameica asked.

Scotland stared at him. "Good catch, there, lad. If ye'd finished tha' word I might've had tae rend ye, an' after all this trouble I don' think anyone'd like that. Now come on, are we 'ere to yell at me or fuck?"

"I don't see why I can't do both at the same time," England muttered. Wales rolled his eyes and stepped on England's foot. England yelped. America just smiled, shook his head and followed Scotland into the next room.

Northern Ireland was already in the room waiting for them. It was a simple room, with several large windows, a king sized bed in the corner, and a couch and a few chairs on one of which North Ireland sat in the other, which America suspected had been moved into the room specifically for tonight.

Northern Ireland was a small man, but taller than both England and Wales, but just shorter than Scotland. He was lanky like Ireland but smooth and ruddy faced like Scotland, his hair was tinged a few shades closer to blond than either.

He stood as they came in, fidgeting. Wales swept beside him and said, "so you got the lube, right?" Northern Ireland nodded and gestured to two bottles on one of the plush chairs. "He's not quite as experienced as some," Wales informed America softly, to which Scotland gleefully added on.

"It's England's fault. 'E was still a midget 'til th' 20s."

Northern Ireland and England both began coughing loudly at the same time.

Wales glanced between them for a moment. "Uh, yeah," he took England by the arm and led him to a chair, where England sat down, "Northern Ireland's going to go first, then, 'cause he doesn't have a ton of experience and you might need to help him a bit."

"I don't need help," Northern Ireland grumbled, but took one of the bottles of lube Scotland picked up and approached America anyway, still fidgeting a bit. He stopped just a few feet in front of America. "Um."

"Yeah," they watched each other. "Uh, you first?" America gestured to the bed. Northern Ireland haltingly turned, approached and sat on the bed. He kicked his shoes and socks off. America did the same.

"Your awkward is making _me_feel awkward," Scotland helpfully shouted from his seat on the couch. "And I don't even fancy m'self a very awkward person."

"Shut up, Scotland. Think of how I feel," England grumbled.

"You don't feel. You 'aven't got a soul, Iggy."

"Fuck you, you're the ginger here, not me."

"Oh, so Wales doesn' count?"

"He dyes his hair. I'm sure he was blond when I was little."

America and Northern Ireland found it was much less awkward if they ignored the other three countries in the room, and had settled themselves down on the bed by the time England and Scotland started paying attention again.

Shedding his coat and folding it carefully on the far side of the bed, America unbuttoned his shirt and let it flop gracelessly to the floor. Northern Ireland did the same, pulling his teeshirt off and exposing his skinny, bony chest. His hip bones peeked above his tight pants.

America reached over, took Northern Ireland by the forearms and pulled him into a short, closed-mouth kiss.

The awkwardness began disappearing a bit faster after that.

Northern Ireland's bony chest fit nicely against America's most muscular chest. He wrapped his arms around the small body and pulled him close enough to feel the bulge in Northern Ireland's pants, and rubbed against it gently. The younger nation moaned softly.

Both their hands seemed to go for the others' pants at the same time. Northern Ireland's pants slid easily off, America's kept getting caught on the bed and had to be jerked down to his knees at which point America kicked them off himself. Their underclothes went next in much the same fashion.

America reached down to stroke Northern Ireland, who was already rather hard. He must have been thinking about this for a while before America had arrived. Northern Ireland made another choked moaning sound and arched up a bit.

If he glanced out the corner of his eye, he could see that England was steadily turning a rather lovely shade of magenta.

After a moment of grinning smugly to himself, America noticed England and Scotland were sitting next to each other, but the other half of Scotland's couch was conspicuously empty.

"Hey, guys, where'd Wales go?"

Scotland, England and Northern Ireland all turned to where they thought Wales had been sitting just minutes previously. Wales apparently hadn't simply become camouflaged; he was gone.

For a moment, they all stared at each other, Scotland and England looking moderately more unnerved than anyone else, when the door creaked.

"Why's everyone standing around?" Wales asked.

England shot up from his seat, "Where were you just now?"

"Getting something," Wales held up a hand to show the reason he left.

America felt something suspiciously like cold hard terror pool in his gut. Wales looked over at him and snickered.

"What's with that face? You didn't think you could actually get through all of us without some help, didn't you? I don't doubt your abilities or anything but, ah," Wales leaned over and slipped the cock ring around America's dick, "this makes things more fun."

000

**A/N**

**We've made it to M~ **

**It Has Actual Notes This Time: **

**Northern Ireland (who has been hardly in existence since the late 1700s) was a 'midget' until about 1925s because, um, he wasn't exactly separate from Ireland until 1921… and so he was still a kid and it took him a couple years to get taller once he was separate… then again, a midget in their family isn't much shorter than usual. They were just a bit reluctant to let him get out much, so he's a bit inexperienced. **

**The battle tactic Wales refers to is, of course, Scotland's nasty habit of flipping his kilt to moon/flash his enemies (one of the few amazing accurate things in **_**Braveheart**_**) It worked better than you would've thought. Remember last A/N when I said he does everything for 'teh lulz' and is secretly a mad genius? UH, YEAH.**

**Wales is secretly a devious little bastard, you know. And just think, poor England and Scotland had to grow up with him.  
>I'm taking the middle ground in the debate over Wales' hair color: he dyes it to whatever he feels like.<strong>

Headcanon: All the British Isle Bros know who the other British Isle Bros are with. It was pretty awkward during the Cold War with Scotland and Russia and England and America (and RusScot almost caused the AmEng to break up!) It's gotten to the point where there are no secrets, so England would know beforehand what was planned. Sneaky little England, you. Also: England's 'f-bomb' count goes up by one every time he's in private. Most of the time you meet him and he's quite polite. And then you get him somewhere alone and he drops them like catalpa flowers.

**Apologies for the soulless redhead joke. It just kind of happened. I actually love redheads….. you know, If the fact that I'm writing the British Isles as almost entirely redheaded didn't make that clear. **

**Edit/: Just realized on all the chapter disclaimers I forgot the space in N. Ireland and it blanked his name out. Putting those in now.  
><strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, only my ideas of what , Scotland and Wales would be like. **

America hadn't ever really used a cock ring before. They weren't something he typically involved in his sex life. Orgasms were the whole _point_ of sex (making love wasn't quite the same thing, that had a slightly different point, despite the censors in radio edits) and normally he really wasn't exactly in a situation where he wanted to hold out for that long. He hadn't been alive long enough to be tired of normal sex. Why would he bother getting too hyped up about stuff, when by the time he _was_ bored of regular sex they would probably have such ridiculous sex toys that he'd never be able to _get_ bored of sex?

So he wasn't the most favorable to wearing the cockring. He could orgasm four times a night!

And then some part of his mind (in a Scottish accent) supplied a scathing, 'puritan.'

The cockring stayed and he ground his hip into Northern Ireland's crotch until the younger nation keened and rutted back. America was grateful for the cool evening weather because sweat dripping down both their bodies in small rivulets. Unfamiliar with each other as they were, America took the time to run his hands down Northern Ireland's back. He followed the young nation's spine down to his small waist, rolled his thumbs over the bony hips and cupped his perky ass.

Northern Ireland was mapping America similarly, face nuzzled in the junction between America's neck and chin, he suckled over the pulse, licking slowly and carefully down America's neck. His hands rested on America's chest, shyly feeling over America's muscles and hesitantly working their way down to his crotch. It was sort of impressive he could rut against America like he could while still sort of searching out exactly where he wanted his hands and mouth to go.

(Oh, and England's older brothers were assholes. )

Northern Ireland bit his collarbone just as America wrapped his hand around Northern Ireland's prick. They both choked out moans. As America began to stroke the hot, pulsing organ, Northern Ireland groaned out something like, "lube."

Wales— or Scotland, America's eyes weren't focusing too well when it happened, even though his glasses were still on, because Northern Ireland was experimenting with his mouth again over a particularly sensitive spot that made America go cross-eyed. He was sure it wasn't England, though— tossed a large bottle of lube towards the bed that hit America's hip. He grunted, used his spare hand to pop open the bottle, and gently poked at Northern Ireland's entrance.

Northern Ireland jumped and pulled away from America. "Uh…."

The awkwardness that had receded momentarily returned in full force.

America wrapped his arms around Northern Ireland's small frame and helped the younger nation lie down. "Okay, so how much have you done this before?"

Northern Ireland blushed vermilion. "Lots of times!"

Somewhere in the background, he heard Scotland groan. It did not sound much like an 'I'm-totally-turned-on-by-my-nephew' sort of groan. Kind of opposite, really.

"Just use a lot of lube!" one of the brothers (he again couldn't tell which one, being somewhat preoccupied to pay attention to the accent, but he thought it was Wales)

"Are they always like this?" America asked Northern Ireland.

The small nation shook his head. "They're pretty nice right now, actually…"

America made a face until Northern Ireland chuckled quietly and seemed to relax back down again.

"Okay, then, just focus on breathing or something. Let me know if it's uncomfortable," America said as he lubed his fingers once again, this time with about a third of the bottle, and began pushing the first finger into Northern Ireland's tight, warm hole.

"'M _not_ a virgin," he thought he heard Northern Ireland mutter quietly, "'S just been a while…"

America didn't say anything, and continued to stretch the sweaty nation. Leaning down he nibbled on Northern Ireland's ear, tasting salt and hearing breathy moans panted right into his ear as he added a second finger and twisted them around in the tight, wet hole.

This went on for a short while, America distracting Northern Ireland with a bite or a suck or pump and the younger nation bucking his hips and twisted as he moaned softly, the fingers twisting inside his anus mostly forgotten until the fourth finger pulled out, leaving an empty space that made him whine for something to fill it. America obliged.

Northern Ireland shouted as he pushed in. For one long moment America held as still as he could, despite the throbbing heat around his cock, trying to make sure he hadn't hurt the younger nation. After a minute or so of ragged breathing and gasps, Northern Ireland's head twitched out a nod. America began to slowly pull out and push in again. It became easier as he thrust a third time, Northern Ireland hot and tight around him conforming to his shape.

Thrusting became easier and America sped up into a rhythm while Northern Ireland panted and moaned beneath him. Faster and faster, until the pressure was building and he didn't know how long he might last even with the cockring—

Northern Ireland came, shouting.

America wasn't far behind, he could feel himself edging to the gap, about to tip over the edge, and Jesus that thing on his cock was uncomfortable—

He pulled out mournfully, panting, sweating and still hard. Northern Ireland lay limp under him, still recovering from his orgasm.

He sighed, and in the time it took him to blink, Wales was on the other side of the bed, helping Northern Ireland to scoot to the other side to rest where he wouldn't be in the way of anyone else's fucking.

"Fatty," Wales grunted as he tugged on Northern Ireland's arms.

"Wimp," Northern Ireland grunted, and lay limp to make himself heavier.

Once Northern Ireland was safely dragged to the other side of the bed, Wales climbed up on the vacant space and sat before America. "So d'you feel too close to the edge or is it safe to take that off?" he said, gesturing to the cockring.

America took a deep breath, "I think I need a minute and I'll be good," he said, and leaned back.

Wales nodded and remained where he sat, "That's fine," and he began to pull off his shirt, twisting it off his head and smoothing the hairs back down before shimmying out of his pants and underwear.

Wales' freckles disappeared on his shoulders and reappeared nowhere else on him, unless you counted a few stragglers dotting near his knees. He was chubbier than Northern Ireland and shorter than England. As he leaned against the headboard, his legs lay open comfortably.

As America relaxed and his cock began to ache again, Wales rolled one of his shoulders that apparently had a kink in it. His naked skin flexed and slacked, he rubbed the shoulder in gentle circles that soon slid lower until he was circling a hardening nipple. America thought he heard a small gasp as one of Wales' thin fingers brushed it.

Before America knew it, Wales' hand was trailing down the small white chest to his hips and Wales' other hand had somehow got a hold of the bottle of lube. Wales bent his knobby knees, laid back, and began to circle his entrance with a slick finger. Tugging and pulling at the edges of the small hole, the soft little gasp America had heard when Wales touched a nipple was now audible and frequent.

The nation let out a low moan as he pushed the first finger inside himself.

America moaned as he watched. Wales smeared the lube over his entrance, his finger twisting and pulling and soon joined by a second. He scissored and for brief little moments, America could see his tight, wet insides.

Wales' hips bucked up at the third finger. America's cock twitched watching him.

"You're an evil bastard," he groaned.

Wales smiled. "I love the moment of realization. I really do."

Somewhere in the background, a distinctly English voice said, "You know, I keep telling people that but no one believes me," and was followed by, "shut up, Iggy."

Wales pulled his fingers out, crawled into America's lap and kissed him. It was closed-mouth and his lips were soft and smooth, but the kiss was still searing. Wales held himself up just above America's now aching cock, his thighs just barely brushing it during the kiss. America moaned again.

One of Wales' hands, the one not covered in lube, reached down and slid across America's thigh and up his cock until it reached the cockring, and took it off.

"Ready?" Wales chirped.

"Yeah."

Wales positioned himself and slid down. They both moaned. After a moment to adjust, Wales slid back up again, and they began to fuck.

Wales wasn't as tight as Northern Ireland had been, and he clung around America's shoulder while they went, fucking himself down in time with America's upward thrusts. While Northern Ireland had made shy little moans and gasps, Wales wasn't shy. He gasped and moaned and mewed and dug his nails into America's shoulders when his prostate was hit.

Their chests were pressed close together half the time, just far enough apart to not smack into each other's face. America's glasses were fogging up as Wales' breath hit them, and maybe he should've taken them off before he got into bed.

Without the cockring holding him back, America came to the edge quickly and bit his lip trying to hold back. As though sensing he was about to be left behind, Wales reached down to touch himself as they rode into the last few thrusts and America came.

His vision went white for a few seconds, and came back to him dotted with stars. Just as his orgasm ended, Wales' happened, and he shouted and moaned on America's cock, coming all over their chests. Then he went limp and slumped forward, resting his forehead on America's broad, sticky shoulder.

America rolled back on the bed, panting. He wiped beards of sweat away from his eyes and even though he was sure it didn't show, his limbs trembled like bowstrings. He didn't bother trying to get up as a panting, red-faced Wales slowly pushed himself up, slid off his cock and crumpled at the foot of the bed.

"That was fun," the little nation muttered. "I'm feeling that tomorrow. Eh."

When America blinked again, Scotland was by the bed scooping Wales up into his arms. Feeling the drain already, America sat up and was about to protest Scotland getting up on the bed when the big man turned to him and said, "Now yer all gettin' a break. I'm not fucking with someone that tuckered out, ken?"

America nodded dumbly for a moment, then flopped back down beside a blushing Northern Ireland, and caught his breath.

000

**A/N**

**No historical notes this time! …that actually feels incredibly weird. Because I've googled so much lately. And… there's no history? What the hell?**

**Wales is a devious little bastard. I don't know if anyone else likes him like this, most of the guys reviewing seem to, but if someone needs more justification than boredom: people make Canada a devious bastard all the time. Wales and Canada are about the same thing. Right?**

**My schedule may be a little wonky for the next few days, so if I don't reply to anyone's review or just skip a day of posting, sorry. IRL things happening…**

**Thank you all who have been reviewing, it brightens my day every time I look in my inbox and find a new one, even if I don't get the chance to reply! 8D  
><strong>

**(Oh, wait, I do have a note! 8DD )  
><strong>**America's entertainment (TV and radio) are a little ridiculous. "Violence?" Great." "Sex?" "Even better!" "Curse words?" "THINK OF THE CHILDREN YOU SATANIC BABY KILLER, HOW COULD YOU EVEN SUGGEST THAT?"  
>For this reason, a song that's original lyrics were "Sorry if I'm forward, but I'm going to fuck you tonight" was changed on the radio to "Sorry if I'm forward but I'm going to love you tonight." No, seriously. It does supply great narm sometimes.<strong>

**Nireland (…what? It's short. And catchy. ) honestly isn't a virgin. His bros wouldn't let him lose his virginity to America. He's just small and… not very experienced…**

**This chapter was fun. Now let's never speak of this atrocity again. My hands are weeping for their sin against humanity.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I do not own hetalia, only my ideas of N. Ireland, Scotland and Wale's personalities.**

They left the bedroom for forty minutes. It was originally going to be more like five or ten minutes, to let America catch his breath and recover a bit before the next round, but someone decided a shot of bourbon would perk America up faster. When one glass was poured in the isles' household, at least three more glasses were poured, and so they all took turns while ten minutes became twenty, became forty.

Wales and America stood there clad only in their boxers when Northern Ireland, who had redressed himself fully, glanced at the clock and muttered the time quietly.

"It's that late?" America asked. Northern Ireland jumped, apparently not intending for anyone to hear him.

"Uh, yeah…" he said, and quickly went back to nursing his second glass.

"I guess we should get back to it, soon," Wales mused quietly and turned to look at Scotland. America, standing beside Wales, foolishly followed his gaze and noticed the older nation was still in his kilt.

Once the second bottle was empty, they went back to the bedroom. A window in the corner had been opened to let it air out while they had drank, and now cold night air circulated through the room, diluting the smell of sweat and musk that had prevailed before.

America slipped out of his boxers and turned to look back at Scotland, finding the old nation similarly tugging off his shirt and reaching down to take off his kilt.

"Uh, hey, wait," America said, "Can you leave that on?"

Scotland looked up to stare at him while the brothers behind them snickered.

"Fetishists…" Scotland muttered, but let the kilt stay.

He picked up a new bottle of lube, which America now saw was stored in a box under the couch on which Wales and Northern Ireland sat, then he lumbered up onto the bed beside America.

America swallowed.

Scotland was the largest of the isle's brothers. While Ireland about matched him height-wise, Scotland was wider and had a natural strength that rivaled America's. England had been the only one to truly conquer him, despite the numerous invasions.

He wasn't exactly known as a nation especially known for tossing out 'foreign relations' willy-nilly.

Still, when Scotland lay back on the bed, mostly naked, he crossed his arms behind his head and reclined like there was nothing to submission in the world. "Well?" he said.

"Uh," was America's witty response, "nice abs."

"Yers too."

"I'm kind of scared to touch you because you look like you're waiting to bite me."

"Huh, ye ken? I like biting."

"…well don't bite me."

"_Well,_I cannae—"

"Uh, guys?" They both turned to look to Wales, who was holding a sleepy-looking Northern Ireland on his shoulder. "As much fun as this is, we're going to be here forever if you keep it up."

America and Scotland looked back at each other. Then at their respective abs.

"Trade secrets when we're done?" America said.

Scotland nodded, "Fair idea." He rearranged himself again and propped himself up to suck at America's neck.

America tilted his head to give better access and ignored the small biting pain on his collarbone a short while later. He slid his hands up Scotland's thighs, feeling over the strong muscles and lifting the kilt carefully.

"…no underwear?"

"How much of a true Scotsman do you think I am?"

"_Right._"

America pulled Scotland up and a bit closer, so they pressed against each other, and continued to hike the kilt up until he could comfortably see all of Scotland's toned ass and thighs while Scotland worked his way down to America's chest and rolled a perky nipple between his teeth.

They both groaned and huffed as Scotland was pressed against the headboard and America snuggled between his legs to press them chest-to-chest and bit Scotland's ear. The old nation moaned.

Erections pressed against each other, their lips clumsily bumped into each other, licking chins and cheeks as well as ear lobes when their lips finally pressed together. With a thrust of his hips, America's mouth opened in a moan and a wet, hot organ slid inside his mouth.

America's tongue joined it for a moment, twisting in their mouths for a few moments before he pulled back from Scotland just enough to speak. "You French," he said.

Scotland rolled his eyes, "We'll I've been stuck with th' pretty bastard since I was a'thousand, now haven't I?"

"How old are you now?"

"I lost count, but somethin' like three-thousand an' a half."

America was quiet for a moment. Then he pushed the thought out of his mind and resumed kissing like the conversation had never happened. Scotland thankfully obliged.

After the inexperienced Northern Ireland and the more desperate sex with Wales when he'd had to get off and get off _right that minute,_Scotland was big, slow and experienced. And it felt good, even as teeth and nails dragged over his skin and left little welts in their wake. They pushed and pulled each other closer and away, small tests of their strengths on each other. The bed was old and made of very sturdy wood, and held them as they were, but America knew they would have to go somewhere even sturdier sometime and test their strengths against each other for real.

He didn't really want to think about what England would say if he ever tried something like that, though. When he glanced over at the chair in which England sat, the nation had his face buried in his hands. The part of America that wasn't remembering Scotland's dick pressed into the folds of the kilt and the opportunity of a lifetime twinged with guilt.

And then Scotland seemed to notice his distraction, and pulled America closer to suck on his neck and a calloused hand snaked down between them to rub his prick. A shudder rolled down his spine and all the bones in America's legs melted.

"Ye aboot ready?" Scotland's breath was hot in his ear.

"Mh, you aren't stretched," America groaned back. Scotland's hand hadn't yet left his cock.

"Then hurry th' fuck up and start stretching, ken?" Scotland pinched one of America's nipples with his free hand to emphasize the point.

America did not squeak, but he did quickly reach over to the bedside table and pick up the bottle of lube. Just when he was about to open it, he paused and took his glasses off, setting them on the edge of the bedside table.

Scotland was close enough to America that his features remained quite clear, but the brothers on the other side of the room became rather blurry. Reassured his lacking glasses was not going to impair much at this range, America popped open the bottle of lube. "You stretch yourself or want me to do it?"

"I'm being lazy," Scotland replied, spreading his legs and reclining against the headboard again, "ye should do the work."

America snorted but felt a smile crawl onto his face as he warmed the lube between his fingers. Scotland propped himself straighter up again as America leaned down to start, pushing up the kilt that had slipped down again and partially obscured Scotland's entrance during their grinding.

Scotland was relaxed as America's finger wiggled in, and only let out a quiet grunt at the intrusion. Like Wales, Scotland wasn't as tight as Northern Ireland, but he guessed the old nation hadn't done this in a while. "Are you good?"

"Great," Scotland growled, "Hurry up."

America did. Scotland shifted and squeezed around his fingers as another slipped in, scissoring and twisting inside, searching for places that would make the man feel better. Scotland moved with him carefully, arching a little here, twisting a little there.

"Your kilt keeps slipping down," America said, pushing it back up a third time.

"Want me t'take it off?" Scotland said, eyes closed and breathing just a bit ragged.

"Nuh-uh," he added a second digit. Scotland huffed and reached down to grab America's wrist and pull the fingers out. "What're you doing?"

"Well ye don't like it fallin', so we'll have to fix it, ken?" Scotland said, pushing America a little farther back on the bed. He rolled onto his stomach and propped himself up on his knees, "Now don't ye dare complain."

America did not. Suddenly quite a bit harder, he slid his fingers back into Scotland and continued fingering in the new position, slipping one finger in after the other until Scotland's breathing stopped lurching every other twist.

He tried to be thorough, somewhere in his mind realizing Scotland hadn't come here for lovemaking and wouldn't settle for anything less than being pounded into the mattress. Or maybe that was just what America was hoping for. After four fingers were thrusting in and out easily, America pulled back and quickly lubed himself up, cock throbbing, and thrust into Scotland.

He might have gone too quickly, but Scotland didn't say anything, just grunted again and fisted the sheets.

Scotland wasn't like Wales or Northern Ireland. He wasn't shy, he was genuinely quiet. His breaths were ragged as America pounded in, thrusting forcefully into him, making permanent welts in the mattress as Scotland was shoved down and down again. They were sweaty and their bodies slipped against each other, and whenever America began to slow or weaken his thrusts, Scotland, kilt now sliding the other way up his hips, thrust himself back harder and urged the young nation on.

At some point America found himself digging his nails into Scotland's thighs and the old nation clenching and wrapping around America tighter, tighter.

Scotland came just barely before America, his hand wrapped around his dick. He shuddered when he came, groaning into the pillow while America shouted and slumped over his back.

They pulled away from each other to land on the mattress, one person's head half on the other's chest and legs tangled like a mess of weeds. Their chests heaved, and when breath came back to him, Scotland turned to America, bright eyes flashing and said, "Yer cleaning the fuckin' kilt."

America laughed.

It took them another few moments to move again. When they could, America reached out, fumbling over the edges of the bedside table. He found his glasses a good ways away from where he thought he'd put them. Slipping them back onto his face, he blinked a few times, the world again became clear.

Scotland sat up and stretched, popping his back as though America hadn't just fucking him into the mattress as hard as he could. The young nation was almost stunned until he noticed a barely concealed wince of pain as Scotland shifted to make room for his last brother. Quite suddenly though, his neutral expression shifted into one of his wide grins.

"Like what ye see?"

America looked up to find England curled into his chair, red faced and with an impressive bulge in his pants.

"Yes, well, no— not like that!" England sputtered and flailed. "I-I just realized never got to _see_you conquered before—"

Scotland's fist had connected with England's face before America even knew he'd moved to striking distance. Before he could even scramble off the bed to try and break it up, England was on the ground and Wales was valiantly struggling to hold Scotland off.

"America's— right— behind you!"

America clasped Scotland's shoulder and threw him off of Wales and England with enough force to throw him back a few feet and make him stumble back onto the bed.

Wales straightened up and huffed, hands on his hips as America quickly bent down to see if England was all right. "Way to ruin the mood, Scotland."

Northern Ireland stood up and applauded. Scotland told him to shut up. Northern Ireland promptly sat down again.

"Ignore him, he just wants to bone Ireland," Wales said, fixing some hair that had fallen out of place. A shoe flew across the room, narrowly missing his head. "It was a joke, damnit!"

Ignoring the older brothers, America bent down and carefully scooped England up in his arms and carried him to the bed just as Scotland got off of to act as a meat shield between Wales and North Ireland. Laying England down on the mattress, the man stared up at America under knitted eyebrows, frowning.

"I could have walked," he said. "One punch isn't going to keep me down long, no matter who actually hit me."

"I know," America said, leaned down again, and kissed him.

England pulled back first, "Are we still doing this?"

"Is your little friend still up?" America asked.

England took America's hand and guided it down between his legs, "Hm," he said, "Seems to be. Are you sure we can't kick the brutes out, first?"

"I think they're busy. They were being too peaceful in close together for too long or something," America said, glancing back at the three. Then, he looked back at England, leaned down, and gently kissed his cheek.

**A/N**

**This is the second to last chapter! The next one finishes it! I'm actually finishing something! YES!**

**Warning: This A/N is seriously, _entirely_ about Scotland. I like him, but _I don't even know_how this happened. He's taken over.**

**Scotland's age is a guestimation combined with another one of his 'for teh lulz' moments.**

**Edit: because of my really bad math I said Scotland was around 3000 years old. He's not. He's older than Jesus, but probably not by that much. Apologies to anyone who read that. He's joking when he says he's three-thousand and a half.**

**Also about Scotland, as far as I have been told, England is the only nation to have ever conquered and controlled all of Scotland besides Scotland himself. And England did it through political bastardry. Other nations such as Denmark, Ireland [sort of], and Ancient Rome all attempted to conquer Scotland, but would only control parts of it. England on the other hand, brought Scotland back under control like… three times?**

**Q: England, what's your favorite hobby?**  
><strong>A: Invading Scotland (and Ireland) (Scotchireland? Scireland? )<strong>  
><strong>Russia: oh, hey, I like doing those sorts of things, too! 8D<strong>

**Another also: he really wanted to top Al. He really did. But the request was specifically bottoming!Scotland and… he likes bottoming sometimes, but _America is such a bottom_. Like, seriously. IMMIGRATION. Do you need anymore proof?**

**(I have too many Scotland headcanons. And only the _appearance_ fits with pixiv!Scotland... because he's face it, he's hot but really needed an attitude adjustment. And slightly less neon hair. )**

**…this is probably the only good porn in this whole thing, derp, I can't write much other than snappy dialogue in here….**

**-crawls back into her corner-**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: …the same thing I've said for the past 5 things. Really, truly, madly.**

America was shaking just slightly as he helped England undress, and England laid a hand on his shoulder and told him, "I know you're tired, it's fine," and pulled his pants off on his own. "Lay back."

They probably could've waited for America to recover more before starting, but the mood had seemed right and his brothers were occupied with each other that America and England could almost say they were having a private moment.

After all the things that had happened that night, England very much wished for a few private moments. Though he wasn't entirely the most upstanding gentleman all the time, he was still rather reclusive and liked his privacy. Especially in intimate matters such as this.

Debauchery was fun, no one, let alone anyone in his family, would every deny that.

America's breathing began to even out as he lay relaxed on the bed, with England's hands tracing the familiar lines of his chest. America's large hands held his hips in a loose grip and his thumbs rubbed in pleasant circles on his thighs.

…And England supposes that lovemaking has quite a few merits of its own.

"Hand me the lube, love," he whispered into the shell of America's ear. The nation below him sighed and hummed gently, one hand leaving England's thigh to hand him the bottle before returning to its place.

England took the bottle and set it by himself on the bed, where he could easily reach it later. Carefully, before they went further, he slid the glasses from America's face once more. "Now really, you knew we were getting right back in bed, why'd you put them back on just now?"

America looked younger without his glasses. A whole century younger. Back in his youthful prime. "Habit," he said, and grinned.

England snorted, "Silly," and kissed him.

Americas arms wrapped around England's waist in a strong hold, despite the boy's tiredness. Two large hands jerkily un-tucked England's shirt and pushed his pants down. His hands cupped England's ass, and England groaned, low and soft.

It had been terrible, watching those hands move over his brothers' bodies. It made him wonder if this whole thing was just another of Wales' non-violent 'let's-get-back-at-England' schemes. It was certainly more effective at bothering England than occasionally mixing up his paperwork.

He slid his teeth down America's neck as his pants slid down to his knees. He glazed over where Scotland's teeth had reddened the skin and he sucked and licked until they were _England's_ markings, instead.

When his teeth had finally reddened most America's neck he pulled back to realize, America had unbuttoned his shirt, and now lay open, exposing his chest. The young nation seemed to have recovered once again, as he put a hand on England's shoulder and slowly turned them over so England was on his back and America on top.

"Want me to stretch you?" America asked, kissing along England's neck and pinching one of his nipples. England sighed, a small groan pulled out of his throat by the sensations.

"You've done enough work for now," England said, "I'll get it," and picked up the bottle of lube once more. Popping it open and smearing his fingers, he spread his legs and relaxed.

The first finger that went in, and America's hands roamed up and down his body.

The second slipped in a few minutes later, and America's tongue licked down his chest.

By the time he was stretching himself with three, America was fully hard again and loudly sucking England's cock. England moaned and his hips bucked lightly, but he managed to stay mostly still while still stretching himself and being sucked until his fingers came out and he said, "Lube yourself," in a gasp, "_Now._"

America did. England's legs were spread wide and inviting on either side of him. Sliding forward, America didn't bother entering slowly— and England was pleased.

The boy knew him. He knew what he liked. And as he was thrust into with one hip-snapped motion, the pulsing warmth of America's cock filled England to burst.

His body adjusted quickly, happy for the familiarity. He was sure America was reviling in it as well, after fucking three strangers.

Fuck being England's brothers. They were strangers to America. And as nerve-wracking as it had been to sit back and think, _but what if they do it better than me?_ America's breath on his face and his hands on his hips reassured England that _I like you better, anyway_.

And England held onto America tightly, as though hugging while they fucked, and the three people watching from the sidelines seemed to meld away from his consciousness. Insignificant in comparison.

The first thrusts were full and strong, filling England to his core. He threw his arms around America's shoulders and moaned into his chest, kissing him when the opportunity came. As they went and England grew closer to his limit, he realized that fucking three people was starting to take its toll on America. His thrusts were getting sloppier and slower, his kisses missing more often.

"America, roll over," England hissed. America gasped and thrust once more before wrapping his arms around England's waist and rolling onto his back without once pulling out. Suddenly on top, England straightened his back, lifted himself up and began thrusting down on America's dick. The young nation moaned and bucked his hips up to meet him.

America came, and England stroked himself vigorously to his finish before the nation went entirely limp.

He lifted himself off America and lay beside him, satisfied in America's current state of exhaustion.

"Well?" he said.

America nodded slowly. "Fun… Let's do it again…"

England laughed.

His brothers were still in the corner, chatting amongst themselves, and for a while they let America rest again. Once he and England recovered the strength in their legs, the older brothers helped the two back out to the kitchen of the house, where the clock indicated it was now past midnight.

Scotland made a quiet mention of having whiskey hidden 'around 'ere somewhere, damnit,' and hardly stumbled as he went off to find it.

000

Three empty bottles later, America thought he should probably be driving back to the hotel soon.

"Already?" Scotland said, eyebrows going up, "We're not done with you yet, ken?"

"We're not?" America said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Northern Ireland turn beet red.

Scotland continued, "O'course not. Ye just fucked us, but the night's still young enough."

Wales chimed in with his chirping voice, "Yeah. Now we get to return the favor and fuck you!—I call DP with Northern Ireland!"

America squawked. "What?" His neck snapped around to stare at England, "You knew about this, didn't you?"

England sighed dramatically before breaking out in a grin, "It might've been part of the appeal."

(because as nice as lovemaking was, debauchery was _very_ fun, too. Ask anyone in his family.)

"Go to Hell, England!"

000

At the third and final day of the World Meeting, America was limping so badly England said he looked liked he'd had a good few centimeters lobbed off one leg.

Cuba gawfed and called across the table: "Hey, America, who fucked you?"

Before either America or England could decide on a witty response, a voice from the hall that sounded distinctly Welsh called out, "_The U.K, halfwit!_"

England shot up out of his seat and screamed, "Did you bastards follow me here again?"

Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland leaned against the wall and each other as they laughed.

"We told you we wanted to see their faces!" Wales chirped as Northern Ireland helpfully pointed behind America and England's backs.

The two turned to look at the reactions of the world.

And it was priceless.

000

Fin. 

000

**A/N **

**Lame ending is lame.  
><strong>

**I couldn't figure out how to finish, so… I cracked it up a little. I hope it's funny? 8D;; [/can't make good jokes]**

**Thank you all for reading this! You have no idea how much fun I've had writing this and getting your responses each day. So I just wanted to thank you all, especially the people who took the time to comment, put up with my ridiculous A/Ns or enjoyed my interpretations of the British Isles.**

**I don't actually write smutty things very often, I write more serious things, but if anyone wants to pop by my page or follow me, I'd be very grateful and hope I continue to be entertaining! :)**

**(derp, forgot to upload this for half a day)**


	8. Epilogue and Bonuses I have no regrets

**Disclaimer: Blah. **

**These are things liked from the original draft but couldn't find a way to put them in. I hope they entertain someone besides just me ^^;**

**Epilogue:**

That night, after a particularly fine batch of English breakfast tea and some 69, America pulled England close in bed and held him.

"Y'know," he said, yawning. "I kind of like your brothers."

"Only you would," England huffed and gave him a kiss on the forehead. America smiled.

"Yeah well— if it's alright with you, of course— I think I'd like to see them again."

England was smiling two now. "I may be able to arrange it," he said.

America kissed him. "Iggy, I think this is the start of a beautiful relationship."

"…you just want North Ireland to give you candy again."

"No. That's just a perk."

"That's not the only perk, is it?"

"Nope. Scotland's a perk too."

"Lech."

"Ass."

"You told me I had a beautiful arse last week."

"…all right. Fine. You win this round."

Then, America kissed him again.

It was a beautiful night.

000

**BONUS 1 **

**An explanation I wanted to put in, but couldn't find a place to fit it.  
><strong>  
>"You aren't doing anything fancy with your kilt." America said. "Why aren't you doing anything fancy with your kilt?"<p>

Scotland raised an eyebrow. "Why would I do something fancy with me kilt?"

"Because you're wearing a kilt," America said. "I mean, you wore it, so you were probably planning something, right?"

Scotland stared at him a moment. "Tell me," he said finally, "Do ye wear different jackets sometimes?"

America nodded.

"I wear different trousers sometimes. And sometimes I wake up in the morning and feel like wearing a fucking kilt."

"….so it wasn't because we're having sex?"

"No, laddie, it wasn't because of the sex. You aren't that special, no matter what Iggy told you when you were a babe. You weren't his favorite anyway."

"_What?_"

"Yeah, he ignored you because the sugar plantations were nicer and he wanted to focus on them 'cause they brought in more money and enslaved the natives easier an' everything while you were making friendly with 'em. Don't they teach this in your schools, I thought?"

America turned to the old country covering his face in the chair on the other side of the room. "ENGLAND!" he said, "GO TO HELL!"

000

**BONUS 2**

**Because it's a family of Trolls.**

"Well, y'know, Florida _is_ bigger then all the UK," America said, chuckling. He quieted after noticing the stony looks the other nations were giving him. "What?"

Scotland reached down and lifted his kilt.

"Oh," America said, "You guys do know I didn't mean it _literally_, right?"

Wales unzipped his pants and pushed them down enough to show himself off.

"Now that's just mean."

North Ireland looked back and forth between the two and uncertainly began to unbutton his own trousers when America said, "Okay, okay, I get it, you're all about my size, Jesus Christ!"

"You're really lucky Ireland isn't here," Wales quipped, "He's always wanted to be in a dick-waving competition."

"You are too cute for something that rancid to come out of your mouth," America said.

"Puritan."

"Shut the fuck up, Scotland."

000

…**yeah, I have no excuses. D8 I hope you all enjoyed anyway? The story really is officially over now. R&R. Byyyeee.**


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